


A Night at Blaine's

by InnerSpectrum



Series: Mystrade is Our Division Prompts [63]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Facebook: Mystrade is our Division Fic Prompts, Jazz - Freeform, Mystrade is our Division FB Fic Prompts, Secret Admirer, Singing, Unrequited Love, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2020-10-30 05:49:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20809586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InnerSpectrum/pseuds/InnerSpectrum
Summary: Two men who don't know they love each other unexpectedly find out one night...





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sally Donovan convinces an exhausted Greg Lestrade to take a break for one night and learns something about her boss...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Mystrade is our Division FB Fic Prompts |Sing

“A table at the front, Sally? I’m honored.”

Greg held Sally’s chair before he slid into his own seat.

“Don’t be. I made these reservations weeks ago. Then _he_ and I broke up and…” Sally bit her lip as she realized how that sounded. “Look I wasn’t wasting the reservation. This place is hard to get into, besides you seriously needed to get out of the office boss.”

Sally knew Greg was in a mood as they entered the lounge. Yes, he needed a diversion, but hearing about end of her latest romantic mistake was not it.

“It’s okay Sal. I get it.” Greg gave her a short smile to let her know he wasn’t offended. “And you’re right I needed this. Thank you.”

In the past two weeks he had solved four murder cases, two grand theft cases and even solved a seven-year-old cold-case. Granted, the murderer in that case had died two years ago, but the family of the victim finally had resolution so she knew Lestrade counted it as something of a win. He had even managed to do so without the assistance of the World’s Only Consulting Detective, who was out of town doing something or another for his brother, thank you very much.

Still, she knew Greg felt partially guilty to be there. People needed to get closure and heal in order to move on with their lives that solving their cases can bring. Years of working with him, she knew him well. Detective Inspector Gregory Michael Lestrade was both a laid back guy and a serious task master. Yes, he was tough on his team, but it was nothing compared to how tough he was on himself. There was a reason their squad was one of the top in London in clearing cases and getting convictions. Yes, there were four more open cases in her inbox alone and over a dozen more cases open amongst the squad, but Sally also knew she was correct in making him come out to the jazz club. The telltale signs of broken pencils in his bin were a sign of his stress. Lestrade had been burning the candle at both ends and needed a diversion before he burned out. 

“Stop it, you.” Sally pushed at the hand the held the near forgotten pint in it. “No thinking about work.”

Greg grinned at her sheepishly as he took a sip. “Guilty as charged, Sal. Sorry. I’ve never been here before. This is a nice place.”

“Proof that you need to get out more. _Blaine’s Juke Joint_ has been here for about four years now. The house band is phenomenal. They got a new or I should say a guest piano player a year or two back; he is really good if a little weird.” Sally indicated the man at the baby grand with her chin. 

“Weird? How?” Greg looked up and raised a curious brow.

“Well not weird, more…eccentric. He’s only here periodically. I’ve asked around. He shows up when he wants and they let him because he’s that damn good. Look at him. They are setting up to play their first session of the night. All are chatting with each other except him.” She explained. “Dooley almost never speaks. Just plays and on rare occasions sings. And I have never seen his without his fedora.”

She had come to the exclusive club a number of times, but usually sat in the back or in the middle if she wanted to splurge. This was the first time she sat in the front when the pianist was there. Still, he kept his head low and shadowed by his fedora as always. Even in front seat she could barely see his face beyond his chin. She chalked it up to artists and their penchant for eccentricies.

“Would you like a refill?” a waiter came to the table and smiled at Greg, “or is there anything else I can get you?”

“Nah, I’m good for now,” Greg looked at his half-filled pint and shook his head as he looked to her, “you want anything Donovan?”

It took everything she had not to giggle at the handsome waiter’s somewhat crestfallen look as she ordered another martini. They had been there nearly an hour. It amused her to note the several female heads, and a couple of male heads, that her silver fox of a boss turned.

Greg Lestrade was a handsome man. He was still decently fit for near middle-aged. His prematurely gray hair was misleading, yet it suited him. She heard more than enough wishful thinking among some of the other female officers in the MET to know this. After her break up with Phillip Anderson, gossip about her and Greg started; gossip which Sal quickly and effectively squashed. After his divorce, she knew her boss had started dating again a couple of years ago, but nothing serious. Greg dated what caught his attention, but she observed he definitely had a type: Intelligent first and foremost, he suffered no fools for long. He also liked them tall, and though not picky – he definitely preferred gingers. Now that she thought on it, he had not been on a date for a while to the best of her knowledge. Which is what made the fact that he had not noticed the waiter, who fit the physical build at least, interesting.

“What?” Greg smiled at her barely suppressed mirth.

“He was trying to flirt boss.” Sal waved her very empty martini glass to prove the point. “I know he was a little young, but look at you pulling all the cute ones this evening and you’re completely oblivious. You always used to notice when someone hit on you, except when you were happily married. Only people in love...” she gasped then. “Gregory Lestrade! If I didn’t know better I’d say...”

“Oh please! When did I have the time?” He scoffed and shook his head, a slight flush rose to his face as he glanced away.

There was something in the way he said it. She was detective sergeant after all. There was someone!

“Greg? Who is she?” She asked coyly.

“You’re being ridiculous Sal. There is no _she_,” he pointed a finger at her in warning, “and before you say it, there is no he, either.”

Greg did not hide his bisexuality, nor did he advertise it. It simply wasn’t anyone’s business. He had known about her and Anderson long before Sherlock had publicly outed them. She knew Lestrade had not approved, but said nothing to either of them. It was one of the many things she liked about him. Still, she knew him well and observed his body language.

“Oh! They don’t know, do they? Whoever he or she is.” Sal asked softly.

“Let it go Sal.” Greg gave her a look and she knew she hit home.

She was about to say more when music floated from the piano.

“Is that Pack or Patch-someone’s _Canon-_something?” Greg tilted his head to listen.

“If you mean Pachelbel’s _Canon in D?_ Yes.” Sal teased, “I’m surprised you know that much.”

When the detective inspector was in a mood one could occasionally hear his iTunes as someone entered or exited his office. The squad was well aware that Lestrade’s musical leanings were more towards The Buzzcocks and The Police than Bach and Pachelbel.

“Zip it you.” He grinned good-naturedly, “I like my 80’s punk, but I’m not a complete classical music plebian.”

The pianist played the original classical piece for a bit and then, with an almost imperceptible incline of his head, the quintet smoothly segued into a lively jazz interpretation of the piece.

“Did you say his name was Dooley?” Greg applauded as the number ended, “As in Dooley Wilson?”

“Other way ‘round – his name is Wilson Dooley.” Sal corrected, then saw as he nodded to himself with a smirk. “Wait… You know him?”

“Him? No. Oh, you don’t get it do you?” Greg sat back with an all knowing grin, “of course not.”

It was so much like something Sherlock would do and say when he knew something you did not - which was often - she almost wanted to hit Greg for it, but he had finally started to relax. She didn’t want to spoil it. She waved her hand and waited for the explanation.

“The name of this place is _Blaine’s Juke Joint_, ya? As in Rick Blaine? From the movie “Casablanca?” Greg indicated the various black and white photos that peppered the walls of the club, but nodded specifically at the large one of Rick, Ilsa, and Sam at the piano on the wall behind the bar. “If Bogie is Rick and Ingrid is Ilsa…”

“Then Dooley Wilson is Sam!” Sal laughed as it came to her, “it’s his stage name no doubt, but oh that’s perfect for here. I mean how many people would instantly know that these days?”

“Silver haired cops whose mum loved the shite out of that movie...” Greg grinned as he saluted her with his pint and then tilted his head toward the pianist, “…and apparently that guy.”

Having enjoyed the quintet before, rather than watching the band itself, Sally sat back and watched her boss’ reaction to the band. It was a delight to see Greg relax and truly enjoy himself as he engaged with the music, most notably with the pianist.

“God he really is something else, huh?” Greg had whispered reverently at one point.

Not that she blamed Greg. Without taking anything away from the other marvelous players in the band; Wilson Dooley really was an excellent piano player.

The two sat in compatible silence sipping their respective libations and listened to the band. It was evident that while the trumpeter was the spokesman for the band, introducing each number, telling stories and jokes, it was the pianist who was the star player of the group. Wilson mixed in known classical pieces into the bands own blend of bebop jazz and blues fluidly. He was the virtuoso and they strived to his level.

“Thank you. Thank you, dearest people.” The band leader inclined his head at the applause after the latest number. “We have come to our last number this session…” he clutched his trumpet over his heart in apology at the very disappointed sounds from the audience, “I know… I know… but to make it up to you we have something a little different to close out. Tonight we present an original piece penned by our own Mr. Wilson Dooley who insists on singing it now. It’s called _In the Silver Night_.”

Greg had sat up as the lights dimmed around the band and then the first notes from the piano floated in the air.

_“I hear the clock ticking in the dark  
It echoes my heart as I lay alone…”_

A soft spotlight fell upon Wilson Dooley as he began to sing. Little by little most of the ambient noise quieted as the audience was drawn into the song.

It suited the elegant pianist as perfectly as his bespoke pinstriped trousers and vest, with crisp white shirt with sleeve garters. The top button of the shirt was opened and his tie slightly loosed.

_“…With you in my head  
Wanting you by my side…”_

The rest of the band came in and Dooley’s lean body swayed with the music, yet no matter how his head moved; the rakishly tilted fedora with its wide brim was never enough to see all of his face.

_“In the silver night…”_

Greg’s pint was forgotten as he concentrated on the song.

_“…The moon holds all my secrets _   
_how I long to be in your heart_   
_With words of love I’ve only said_   
_within my dreams…”_

Dooley did not have a great voice, but it was a good melodic one and by god did it fit the stark longing of unrequited love he sang. You knew he felt the song.

_“In the silver night…”_

The pianist’s long pale fingers elegantly floated over the keys in the softer parts of the number then clawed and slammed out their emotion in as it reached its crescendo.

_“…And I’ll convince myself that I can manage  
That caring is not an advantage…”_

Dooley threw his head slightly back and a part of the spot light caught his chin, his bared teeth; how his throat seized in the pain of the acapella note held.

_“But now I know it’s a lie!”_

Lost in the quintet’s music herself she almost dropped her drink at Greg’s sudden gasp of surprise, immediately followed by a shuddering breath as he raised his head suddenly. It seemed incredibly loud in the moment of silence that followed that note before the music came in again.

Sally realized despite the fedora shielding the pianist’s face, Greg had in fact recognized him. More important she knew that Dooley recognized Greg.

_“…For once again I face the stars on my own  
All alone…”_

It seemed as though both Dooley and Greg’s head dropped simultaneously in shock as Dooley finished the song.

_“…In the silver…night.”_

The silence after the final lingering note was as thunderous as the applause that immediately followed.

She had not seen all of Dooley’s face from her angle, but she had seen enough. 

Intelligent. Tall. Ginger.

And then she knew.

She remembered then what the band leader had said: _Mr. Wilson Dooley who insists on singing it now._

Salome Renee Donovan knew with every fiber of her being that the song was about Greg and the singer of the song, one Mr. Wilson Dooley, was actually Sherlock’s older brother, Mycroft Holmes. She carefully schooled her face knowing the elder Holmes brother was more maddening than the younger with his ability to read people and sometimes call them out on it.

Mycroft Holmes, the Iceman himself was in love with Greg. She needed a moment to let that thought settle. Sally marveled on how well her boss must have hidden it for Mycroft to mistakenly believe Greg did not reciprocate when the two met on a regular basis. How could someone as smart as a Holmes _not_ know when the evidence of that love sat in shock right in front of her.

“Greg?” Sally reached out and gingerly touched his hand to get his attention.

The band leader was introducing each band member and ending the set. Dooley’s face was hidden in shadows again as he gave a slight wave. 

Greg’s eyes met hers, the shock of everything was too new for him to hide, and she knew.

“You have been in love with him for a while. I know this now.” She whispered gently. “Did you not know that he loved you too?”

Greg shook his head and then stopped as he realized what he just admitted to.

“Sally, no…” Greg snapped out of the daze that held him. “It’s….”

“It’s insane that’s what it is.” She stopped the denials she knew would come from Greg. “It’s likely to drive your favorite curly haired-detective batty when he finds out. But if I’m reading this correctly, it’s also you maybe finally finding some damned happiness.” Sal leaned in close and whispered harshly, “Gregory Lestrade you listen to me! Get your arse out of that chair and go get him! And for the record: I saw and know nothing.”

As the band started to leave the stage the club's speakers came on with ambient music - Miles Davis' _It's Only A Paper Moon_.

“Go!” She ordered when he had not moved and leaned back in her seat again.

Greg’s appreciative yet terrified grin spoke volumes as he shot out of his chair. 

A few minutes later Sal received a text.

For the record, YOU are my favorite curly haired-detective – not Sherlock. Next time he pisses you off you have my permission to show him this. Thank you. – GL

Sally remained in her seat happy as a clam. She was not surprised at all when a half hour later the band returned without their pianist.

She looked at her mobile as it pinged again. 

He states that you sent him to `get’ me. Thank you. – Unknown Number.

She smiled to herself and wished luck to the two people she would have never imagined together when something tall, dark, and absolutely gorgeous stood behind the seat Greg had vacated.

“Hello. Is this seat taken? Do you mind?”

Sally looked up into the smiling face of what she just knew was going to be her next mistake.

“Why no, it’s not. Have a seat…”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anthea watches as Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade, two men who have lied to each other and themselves by omission, start to see the truth...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Mystrade is our Division FB Fic Prompts | Watch

Anthea sat in the dim corner and watched the room.

At four years of age the establishment’s cachet for quality dining and entertainment still held strong. It drew all sorts of clientele. Anthea has seen foreign diplomats and drug dealers from London’s less favorable neighborhoods rub elbows - almost literally. It was not planned, but the place became an unexpected asset. Many a clandestine meetings between people who should not otherwise know each other, whether professionally or personally have happened here. Most of whom have no idea they were recorded until threats of their indiscretions possibly becoming public knowledge were used as bargaining chips.

Mycroft Holmes, as anyone who has ever met him will tell you, despite his claims to occupy a minor position within the British government, was a cold, detached, sometimes cruel and incredibly powerful man. Very few people knew exactly how powerful and those that knew strived to keep it that way. The man held the secrets of the British government, and a few other nations, in his ineffably brilliant mind. He lived up to the moniker of Iceman, daily. Politics was a cutthroat game of chess at which he excelled. If you did not know better than to cross him, the lesson to not ever do so again was one that only had to be taught _once_. There was a reason his code name was Antarctica.

There was nothing, absolutely nothing, in Mycroft Holmes’ cool calculating demeanor that said piano player at a local jazz club. None of which mattered the first time she visited the club. Nearly twenty years of working with him daily she would recognize the man anywhere. Even with his features shielded, it was a shock the first time Anthea watched Mycroft Holmes, styled in the now trademark large fedora he wore as his alter ego Wilson Dooley, took a seat on stage at the piano with the Blaine’s house band, _Ichor_. Like everything else about the man it was exceptional.

Each member of Ichor was a professional musician with an extensive CV; at least to the public. She personally knew the bassist was a former MI5 operative who owed his life to Mr. Holmes. She may not have known all of them initially, but like her boss she did not believe in coincidence. She quickly learned each person in the band had an allegiance to Mr. Holmes in some fashion. While each member’s primary job was the band – the group had even put out a successful CD of cover songs and Anthea owned one of the exactly three copies in existence autographed by ‘Mr. Wilson Dooley’ himself – Anthea understood should anything happen at Blaine’s their job was to protect Mycroft and get him out. Eventually the members learned who she was as well. They then understood ‘get him out’ meant get him to her and to obey everything she says.

A love of film noir and jazz music being two things that Anthea and perhaps a dozen people at the very generous most, knew about her boss. _Blaine’s Juke Joint_ had a mix of film noir with its homage to the movie “Casablanca” and modern speakeasy vibe with its music. After that first visit she understood. It was a place where he could come, hide behind his fedora, has a drink or two and does a rare thing called _relax._ He did not get to come to Blaine’s often, Wilson Dooley was a guest pianist who appeared perhaps four, or five times a year, and he was always welcomed. It was his escape.

Still, it was a Tuesday evening and _Blaine’s Juke Joint_ was crowded. Technically, she was off duty. The crowd should not be her concern this night, but as long as she knew her boss was out in the open she kept a weathered eye about her. Mr. Holmes gave up telling her to go home a year ago knowing she would watch him regardless. That was her job after all, well - one of many, to watch him.

Polite applause was given as the band took the stage for their first set of the evening.

“Looking good up there Mr. Dooley.” Anthea spoke quietly into the special earpiece designed to look like the average Bluetooth. 

Mr. Holmes gave the slightest nod of acknowledge after he adjusted his own earpiece.

It was their standard code of acknowledging each other’s presence. The chestnut haired beauty smiled to herself, getting him to agree to wear it had been a month of arguing alone.

He rarely spoke beyond the necessary and his bandmates were used to his silence as they chatted and tuned-up around him. Mr. Holmes rolled his shoulders and flexed his fingers to relax the almost always tense muscles.

She knew the only other times he honestly relaxed were with his meetings with Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. He and the DI initially met solely to keep abreast of Mycroft’s genius if more dramatic baby brother Sherlock Holmes. While still very much the cause of several of Mycroft’s migraines, the worst of his behaviors were greatly alleviated once Sherlock met Gregory Lestrade and the then fell into the firm, but gentle grip of doctor and former RAMC captain John Watson who eventually became his lover. Gregory and Mycroft stop pretending to meet for Sherlock updates a while ago, but it never went any further. She knew Lestrade had been interested and for a while Anthea had thought Mycroft might have wanted a little more than friendship from Gregory as well, but that seemed to have petered out.

At least she thought it had.

All of Holmes’ efforts to relax his body went to waste when the detective inspector entered with his work partner and fellow officer at the MET Sgt. Sally Donovan. Lestrade held Donovan’s chair for her to sit before he slid into his own. Because the Fate and universe had their jokes at man’s expense, the pair sat at one of the front tables near the piano.

Nothing about their behavior said _date_, but Anthea knew people in their pay grade did not often spend the money on such good seats except as a celebration of sort – usually romantic. Anthea watched their interactions.

From where she sat Anthea could see Greg’s face and most of Sally’s. Lip reading was as second natured to her as breathing and she relaxed in the confirmation that it was not a date but two colleagues enjoying a needed night off.

Lestrade seemed preoccupied and tense. His mind was anywhere but at the club until Sally Donovan touched Greg’s hand to his attention.

Mr. Holmes had just shy of turned to stone on the stage seeing the contact between Greg and Sally.

She felt as if she could feel the tension that radiated from her boss. She sat up and watched him carefully, prepared to move if he suddenly left the stage. That she realized it was an option alone told her more about what her boss was feelings than the words he would never say could.

Mycroft reached up, tilted the fedora to a steeper slant, and kept his head angled so that his face was more deeply in shadow as he suddenly began to play.

Anthea put her glass down in surprise. Royce, the trumpet player and official band leader, always greeted the audience first before they began their set. Holmes’ sudden launch into Pachelbel’s _Canon in D_ clearly was not supposed to have happened. Luckily they were mostly in place, the members barely kept the surprise from their faces as Royce himself smoothly moved to front stage.

Mr. Holmes played the classical piece as written for a minute then with an infinitesimal incline of his head it segued into a lively jazz version as the rest of the band joined him.

Secure in the knowledge he had yet to be recognized, Mr. Holmes let the music he played do its job and began to relax.

Greg’s conversation with Sally had become minimal as he listened to the band. He like mostly everyone else in the audience listened to the band in general but eventually focused on the piano and trumpet players, the two standouts of the band. Anthea watched Sally and Greg as much as she watched her boss.

Anthea knew Mr. Homes had spent several hours with the engineers on stage lighting. There were specific “Dooley” presets that illuminated the other four members of the band, while keeping him in muted shadows behind the piano just off center of the stage. Anthea had sat in all of the seats up front over time and knew how hard it was to see Holmes’ face when he kept it angled just so. However, for those like the DI who knew Mr. Holmes well, if Greg looked hard enough, Holmes might be recognized.

Then the house and stage lights dimmed. They dimmed in a way that Anthea knew meant Mr. Holmes was about to sing. She knew, more important Mr. Holmes knew the focus would be mostly on him. Gregory Lestrade’s focus, especially. Anthea sat up in her seat, surprised that Holmes would run such a risk until she realized that is exactly what he wanted as he began to sing a new song he penned, _In the Silver Night_.

She listened to the lyrics as was stunned anew.

This was not Wilson Dooley. This was not Mr. Holmes. This was Mycroft.

All of Mycroft’s longing. All of Mycroft’s wanting. All of Mycroft’s love was laid bare before an oblivious audience mesmerized by the performance.

“Oh, holy shite; he still loves him!” Anthea gasped quietly to herself as she watched Gregory.

Anthea saw the moment Gregory Lestrade startled as it came together for him.

And then the unthinkable happened.

Mycroft deep in the throes of the song forgot himself. He threw his head partially back and belted out a note of pure melodic anguish. Anthea herself placed a hand to her heart at the sight of Mycroft’s tensed jaw, his teeth bared. Then she heard Gregory Lestrade gasp. The sound unnaturally loud in the sudden silence that immediately followed behind that raw passionate note as with a shuddering breath he raised his head suddenly.

And she knew they saw each other.

Gregory Lestrade had heard, seen and recognized Mycroft. The detective inspector absolutely knew the song was about him. Mycroft and Gregory had lowered their respective heads simultaneously. Mycroft finished the song, but it was a formality at this point. Yes, Mycroft’s head had lowered into the shadows again, but he now sung to one and only one person.

And that one person knew it.

There was a moment of crashing silence that lingered after the final note of the song. It was if as one the club needed to gather its bearings before it erupted in thunderous applause.

Anthea watched as Sally reached out and touched Gregory’s hand gently. She read Sally’s lips as the sergeant whispered to Greg.

“You have been in love with him for a while. I know this now. Did you not know that he loved you too?”

Sally Donovan was Greg’s partner at NSY for a reason. The woman was a good detective in her own right. Sally had recognized the piano player as well and quickly pulled the dynamics together.

Of course, Greg did not know. Mycroft had not wanted him to know. Apparently, the reverse was equally true. Greg had not wanted Mycroft to know. Now they both knew.

Greg’s eyes met Sally’s as he shook his head. He did not know Mycroft loved him as well. The shock of the discovery was too new for Greg to hide. Anthea saw his belated reaction to the admission and tried to back track. Sally had leaned close to Greg, her head at an angle that cause her hair to fall into her face. Anthea could no longer read her lips, but whatever she had said to Greg made him smile tremulously before he left Sally at the table just shy of a run.

Anthea’s eyes narrowed as she quickly thought. She picked up her mobile and rapidly sent off messages. On stage, Mycroft’s face was hidden in shadows again and he gave a slight wave as Royce introduced each band member and ended the set.

“You do know he’s going to wait for you, Mr. Holmes?” Anthea spoke softly.

She knew he heard her, but he gave no response.

“Are you going to talk to him?”

No response. She watched as Mr. Holmes completely closed in on himself not letting her read him.

“He just accidentally admitted to Sally Donovan that he loves you. If that helps.”

Again, no response.

She paid her tab as Mr. Holmes turned and left the stage with the band. The club speakers started playing ambient music for the patrons.

Anthea sat a while longer. She was not surprised when the band returned for the next set without Wilson Dooley. A very handsome man passed her booth and they exchanged slight nods. She watched as he approached Sally at the seat Greg had vacated. Donovan smiled and let him sit. Anthea suspected it would end badly someday soon, but they were consenting adults and would have a good time that night at least. Anthea left the club with the sounds of Thelonious Monks' _‘Round Midnight_ in her ears.

She sighed as her sedan circled the block. Mycroft’s sedan was still parked at the club. So was Greg’s car. She had no idea what that could portend as she watched plumes of cigarette smoke and two shadowy figures she recognized off to the side of the club for a moment before she finally headed home.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock spends an evening out with John and together they watch as the inevitable starts to unfold between Lestrade and his brother...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Mystrade is our Division FB Fic Prompts | Smoke

“You know jazz really is not my wheelhouse, but this is a nice. Though I do believe that those two at the bar should not know each other, let alone be quite so…chummy.” Sherlock’s mercurial eyes crinkled in amusement as he looked around the dinner club. “I suspect my brother would be equally amused to know such, if he does not already. For that nugget of information alone, makes this evening worth it. Present company only enhances the experience of course.”

“Flatterer!” John sipped his drink to hide his smirk as he spotted the member of Parliament and the mob boss deep into conversation, but he knew Sherlock saw it.

Sherlock had finished his assignment for Mycroft and turned in his report. He surprised John by coming home a day earlier than expected. It was worth the tongue lashing from his husband, the former army captain who had not come with him, when what Sherlock thought would be a mere 4.2 assignment turned into an unexpectedly dangerous 8.7. It was worth the tongue lashing from his husband, the good doctor, when Sherlock strolled into the flat with a broken ulna. It was worth the more than tongue and other lashing when he and John, his oh so good husband, showed just how much the separation made them miss each other. 

And now they sat in a dark corner booth enjoying an evening of wonderful food and music. Sherlock was paying attention to the stylings of a current day jazz violinist, whose work he respected, as it played over the excellent sound system.

“Do they pump it in? Or is it just the ambiance giving the illusion of such?” John mused, “I’d swear there are people smoking here, but it’s against the law.”

“It’s the ambiance. I’ve wanted a cigarette since we’ve sat down.” Sherlock sniffed, then saw John’s face. “Oh relax, John! More for the look and something to do with my hands than for the nicotine.”

“I can imagine you in a speakeasy type of place like this back in the day. You’d be part reputable, part criminal, wearing a white tuxedo jacket with black lapels, your hair slicked back like Bogie. You’d always sit half hidden in a booth much like this as you deduced everyone. All one would really see is the lit fag that dangles from those longs fingers before you placed it between those lush lips to take a drag. It glows so red before you purse those lips and exhale. The plumes of smoke waft around your face caressing those cheekbones.” John looked at Sherlock with a dreamy smile.

“That was…oddly specific, John.” Sherlock’s heat filled eyes narrowed on the doctor. “Shall I invest in such a tuxedo then?”

Sherlock could practically see John’s mouth water and chuckled as the man visibly swallowed.

“Ooh! That was an affirmative if I never heard one.” Sherlock purred. “I’ll get an e-cigarette to complete this fantasy you’ve clearly put much thought into.”

“You won’t get out the fucking flat before I rip you out of it and have you bent over.” John’s voice held a sultry, yet threatening note and it was Sherlock who swallowed.

“Promise?” Sherlock’s voice dropped, “It would be worth _every_ pence.”

He knew the doctor was about to say something incredibly scandalous when he saw John’s deep blue eyes widen with surprise.

Sherlock followed John’s line of vision and groaned.

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade had walked in Sergeant Sally Donovan.

He was grateful John had chosen to sit in an enclosed booth in the back. One because the booth was out of the way from much of the foot traffic, so the music could really be heard, but mostly because they would not be as easily seen. While Sherlock had receded from the limelight enough to still be a mostly semi-private detective again, every now and then he and John were recognized. Neither wanted to risk that this night. Unless Lestrade or Donovan walked directly past their booth, which they would have no reason to do, neither he nor John would be seen.

The music over the speakers slowly faded out as the house band stepped onstage to polite applause. The members did a last-minute tuning of their instruments and chatted amongst themselves for a moment. Sherlock could hear that there was a trumpeter, a bassist, a sax and a drummer in the group.

Because of their booth’s location, the band was not in Sherlock’s direct line of sight. John could see when he angled his head a little, but Sherlock had to turn his head and most of his body to see. Since they were there more to listen than to see, Sherlock was fine with it.

“I wonder who paid for those seats?” John mused a while later.

“Donovan definitely.” Sherlock answered. He looked out to observe the two a moment. “Had Lestrade paid for seats like those, that would make it a date. He would be giving her his complete attention. Donovan is a colleague and his subordinate, he would never do that even if he were interested in Donovan, which we know he is not. Lestrade is too distracted tonight. Sally has finished her drink, but he has barely touched half his pint. His mind elsewhere. His mind is probably on work, but more than likely on my brother.”

“Yeah, he has had a busy couple of weeks. He solved a serial killer and a few homicides and he…” John blinked and stared at Sherlock, “What?”

“Gregory Lestrade and my brother have had regular meetings together since Lestrade first started letting me come to crime scenes. Two years ago they finally stopped pretending it was about me and their get togethers, more of less became dinner dates _between friends_.” Sherlock knew by John’s short laugh he had heard the emphasis and felt the sarcasm of his disbelief, “A few weeks ago, while at Baker Street, Lestrade accidentally referred to my brother by his given name. The familiar way he said it I knew he had fallen in love with my brother even if Mycroft or he himself are not aware of it yet.” 

“Wow that…” John blinked a few times as he took the information in and frowned. “I mean… I realized a few months ago that Gregory stopped actively _dating_. I knew there may have been someone and that it was unrequited. I tried to ask - he’s not talking about it, but _Mycroft_? Really…?”

“Excuse me?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Though John and Mycroft had slowly learned to get along respectfully over time, Sherlock knew his brother was not one of John’s favorite people.

“Stop it.” John chided, “I’m just surprised. Even Mycroft deserves someone to love him. Still, given your brother’s view on caring…? it’s got to be hard as hell on Greg. Oh… Mycroft does not know Greg loves him, does he?”

“What makes you ask?”

“I imagine if Mycroft knew he would either limit his time with Greg to not hurt his feelings or else tell Greg in no uncertain terms it will never happen, to hurt his feelings. Had the latter happened, Greg would limit himself as much as possible.” John thought it out.

Sherlock nodded his agreement. He was about to speak when the opening notes for Pachelbel’s _Canon in D _was heard.

“Huh.” John’s forehead creased slightly as he watched the band.

“What?”

“The pianist just started playing. No intro or anything. The other members covered their surprise well, but it was a surprise. The trumpet guy is just getting to the front of the stage.”

Sherlock arched a curious brow. He had not heard the tinkling of piano keys as the band warmed-up. He inwardly smiled as it reminded him a little of his brother.

Sherlock had his beloved violin, but Mycroft’s musical heart was his piano. He rarely played anymore, which Sherlock thought was a shame, but when Mycroft did he was exacting. Once he had a piano properly tuned, he expected it to remain tuned. Sherlock knew someone came by Mycroft’s townhouse on a regular basis to ensure the grand piano in his music room was ready to be played when he was. Thus, Mycroft never ran his fingers across a piano he was familiar with. When he wanted to play he would set his fingers to gently hover just above the keys and then play.

It amused Sherlock to know both he and his brother shared similar traits for not quite getting the feel of Bach regardless of instrument. In Mycroft’s case it manifested in always dropping the exact same key whenever he played Bach. Mycroft has spent frustrated decades of playing Bach. It would be different keys in different pieces, but it happened every single time. Sherlock leaned and simply listened.

The band’s pianist had a penchant for smoothly mixing in the classical in with the jazz in a way that worked. Except for when the pianist dropped a key in Bach’s _Air on the G String._ It had mixed in so well with the fusion jazz piece that Sherlock would not have noticed at all were he not subconsciously listening for it whenever he heard anyone play _Air_. Still, he had not expected to actually hear that specific quirk and startled knowing _the universe is rarely so lazy_.

In a fit of ire with Sherlock, Mycroft had once asked his baby brother to name the last place he would ever think to look for him, so Mycroft could go there for peace and quiet. Sherlock in an equal fit of ire of his own had flippantly responded with _head-lining at a jazz club_.

Two years ago, a CD from a jazz group named _Ichor_ featuring Wilson Dooley was found after Mycroft had left the flat. Sherlock at first thought was that it had been left by a potential client who arrived before his brother. On the cover were all over the band members in partial shadow, except the pianist who was in near full shadow wearing a fedora that shielded his face. The potential client had never returned. Sherlock had the CD for a nearly a month before he opened it to give it a listen. With a surprised smile he saw “Brother Mine” was autographed by a Wilson Dooley on the CD itself in an elegant script. It was a penmanship Sherlock had seen all his life and recognized his brother’s writing immediately. Sherlock eventually learned only their parents and Anthea were also gifted, thusly. Sherlock ran an experiment in the kitchen, one afternoon and Mycroft came by the flat – unannounced as usual. The CD played in the background. Other than slight knowing smiles that momentarily graced both their features as their eyes met, neither brother acknowledged the gift. 

Sherlock looked around _Blaine’s Juke Joint_ casually and mentally grinned as he made the connection between “Casablanca”, “Wilson Dooley” and his brother. Mycroft was not headlining, officially the trumpeter was the band leader, but the point was made. Mycroft had found a place for peace and in one single night Lestrade, Donovan, John and himself had accidentally invaded it.

“John is the pianist wearing a fedora?” Sherlock whispered wide-eyed though he already knew the answer.

“Ya…” John’s head softly bobbed in time to the instrumental. “Now _he_ should have a lit cigarette in an ashtray smoke swirling at the piano to comple…” John glanced at Sherlock having caught the odd tone before he looked to the stage again. Sherlock knew John didn’t just look this time but observed.

“Sherlock…?” John’s hushed voice had a nervous tremor to it as his mouth slightly gaped. “You have the band’s CD autographed by _Wilson Dooley_ at home…I thought the signature had looked familiar…is it really…?”

Sherlock smiled inwardly hearing the unspoken quotation marks around the pianist’s stage name and nodded, “Yes, it’s him.”

Sherlock and John listened with new appreciation and then glanced at each other in wonder when the band leader announced Wilson Dooley was going to sing. John said nothing making space, expecting it as Sherlock quickly moved to sit next to him on the seat so he could see without twisting around.

Sherlock watched his brother as he played. The oversized fedora did an excellent job of hiding his face in shadows, but Sherlock read Mycroft’s body, listened to the words.

“He’s in love with him…” Sherlock whispered in awe, “I knew it!”

“You mean Mycroft. He’s…in love with Greg?” John glanced at Sherlock his eyes wide in the new knowledge.

Sherlock nodded, his focus totally on his brother.

Caught in the emotion of the song, Mycroft had thrown his head partially back the raw note of longing a testament to the emotions he could not yet say in a single raw heartbreaking note.

Sherlock saw as Lestrade suddenly raised his head and gasped in the beat of quiet following that note. he knew Mycroft heard the gasp and froze. Naturally, Mycroft would know Lestrade’s voice in all its tones to recognize even a stunned gasp.

It was quick and were he not looking at his brother we would have missed it, but for a moment Lestrade and Mycroft had locked eyes in recognition of each other.

Sherlock saw the moment Lestrade knew. The detective inspector’s entire body trembled with the revelation as Lestrade and Mycroft immediately lowered their respective heads.

“Wow…” John whispered softly in quiet after the last lingering note before the audience burst into applause.

Mycroft’s head was down, his face shielded, but Sherlock all but felt his brother’s panic while he sat through the final comments as the band leader made introductions. Donovan was speaking earnestly to Lestrade, from his angle he could not see her lips to read the conversation.

“Where is Greg going?” John’s eyes followed Lestrade as the detective inspector quickly rose and left Sally sitting at the table.

“I suspect he’s going to wait for Wilson Dooley to exit the premises. An overdue conversation is going to happen.”

“I understand Greg not seeing it. You Holmes boys are masters at hiding your emotions. But Mycroft and Greg met on a regular basis. How could Mycroft _not_ know Greg is in love with him? It’s as clear as a bell.” John asked.

Sherlock sighed knowing the answer from experience.

“The same shields that I had used to hide my love for you also made easy for me to be blind to your love for me. I allowed myself to twist things in my mind for all the reasons why you could not be in love with me even when the signs were evident that you were.” Sherlock explained, “Greg hid his love in fear of ruining the status quo. Mycroft would certainly have removed himself from any unnecessary contact to Lestrade were it not reciprocal. My brother, despite his professed disdain of sentimental attachments, would know the moment he was in love but would deny himself. He would find it hard to accept that a down to earth man like Lestrade could love someone like him in all his foibles.”

“Yeah. That is definitely what Greg did, hide his love. And that does sound like your brother.” John gave a small shrug as he thought about it.

Sherlock observed the phalanx that surrounded _Wilson_ as the band left the stage. He knew Mycroft was going to speak to Lestrade. He wished he could not have doubt, but he knew his brother could be stupid sometimes. He sincerely hoped this was not going to be one of those times.

He looked back the art deco doors as he and John exited the club, Miles Davis’ _Smoke Gets In Your Eyes_ filtered to the pavement. His brother deserved a place he could unwind that was not the solitude of home. He will not tell Mycroft he has seen him here and spoil this place for him. Unless invited by Mycroft himself, it would be a long time, if ever, he returned here. He mentally apologized to John. He will have to find an alternate place to bring John’s vision to life and noticed John had become quiet.

“What is it John? I can see a question trying to formulate. It’s taxing to watch.”

John rolled his eyes, quite used to his ways. He knew John was not in the least offended as he gave Sherlock a considered look. “You said Mycroft likely knew the moment he was in love.”

“Yessss…?” Sherlock dragged out the sibilant knowing exactly where the question was headed.

“When…?” John shook his head as he mentally erased and started again, “Do _you_ know when you loved me...fell in love with me?”

Sherlock started to answer and then stopped. John had never asked that exact question before. He smiled shyly.

“Sherlock…?” John absently brushed his fingers along Sherlock’s cast until their fingers touched.

“I knew within a day, John.”

John turned and faced him with his entire focus. Sherlock bit his lip and waited for it. Because John knows him so well Sherlock was ready for his next question.

“And _exactly_ what was the date that you knew?” John asked softly. The doctor looked to him expectantly, knowing something important was about to said.

“Saturday, January 30th.” He replied just as softly as he squeezed John’s fingers that still held his. He knew he would not have to add the year. John would know it.

“But…” John softly gasped, “we met Friday, January 29th…”

“I know.” Sherlock raised his casted arm and kissed his husband’s fingers.

John’s breath stuttered in speechlessness as the doctor stared into his eyes with loving wonder.

“I take it I should get us a taxi back to Baker Street pronto?” Sherlock gently teased even as he held out his good arm to do so.

John still speechless, kissed him in response instead.

As their taxi turned a corner, John rapidly tapped him on his arm and pointed out of the window, “Cabby! Go slow a moment - Sherlock. Look.”

Sherlock looked up to see two figures at the back entrance to _Blaine’s Juke Joint_. The door was held open by a tall fedora wearing figure. The light from the open door shone on the silver hair of the other figure. The one in the fedora took out a cigarette, the silver haired one took out a lighter and helped light the cigarette. Though John and Sherlock already knew, the lit flame momentarily confirmed both faces.

Sherlock could not help thinking John was right. The cigarette smoke that swirled between the two men certainly added something to the mood.

Mycroft and Lestrade stared intently at each other before Mycroft let the door close behind him, throwing the two figures into shadow.

“You can go now, thanks.” John instructed the cabby and looked to Sherlock.

Sherlock settled back into his seat, a small pleased smile graced his features.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft David Alexander Holmes would quickly tell you he placed no faith in any deity. However, he did have faith that the universe gives its wrath and its blessings in its own time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Mystrade is our Division FB Fic Prompts | Blessing

Mycroft David Alexander Holmes would quickly tell you he placed no faith in any deity. Thus, the last thing he expected to happen in his life was to fall in love with the blessing that is Detective Inspector Gregory Michael Lestrade. 

Mycroft needed someone close to his little brother Sherlock. Well, as close as his estranged brother would allow someone to be. Someone to keep him updated on the recovering drug addict’s well-being among other things. Nothing less. Most certainly nothing more. The two would meet and Lestrade would give a summary of some of the cases Sherlock had been allowed access to at the Met and his opinion on Sherlock’s overall mental and physical welfare. It took three months for Mycroft to realize every penny of the “bribe money” Lestrade accepted from him went to various charities close to the then detective sergeant’s heart. It took half a year to realize that while Lestrade had told him enough of what Mycroft wanted to know, he never once had he betrayed any of Sherlock’s personal confidences. In fact, Lestrade had nicely, but emphatically informed the Iceman of the many ways “you can cram ya bloody hole” for suggesting he do so. He also learned Lestrade never betrayed to Sherlock some of the things salacious, albeit truthful, things Mycroft has said about his brother. The detective inspector made his own judgments and acted accordingly. Lestrade was not a perfect man, he’d has had to turn many a blind eye over the years of dealing with the Holmes brothers for that, but he was a rarity in Mycroft’s life, an honest to God good man. Mycroft could not help but respect that.

It took nearly two years of such meetings for Mycroft to realize that their arrangement had slid into something more casual.

In the fourth year it hit him like clue by four as they lunched one afternoon. Their something more casual had turned into a friendship. Even after Dr. John Watson appeared in Sherlock’s life and had such a profound effect on his irascible brother, Mycroft and Greg continued to meet.

He had a friend. He, Mycroft Holmes, had an honest to goodness friend. They chatted about the most random of things, told each other stories from their lives and when Lestrade finally admitted to himself that his marriage was over, they had opened up to each other on past heartaches. They were still ‘secretly’ meeting but no longer pretending Sherlock was the main reason for such anymore. Mycroft had no idea what he had done to receive such a blessing he did not know he needed until he had it, but he was grateful. 

And that clue by four turned into being struck with the force a thousand-pound anvil when Mycroft realized he wanted more from the man. So much more.

When he thought about it he could pinpoint the day it started. It was the winter afternoon that Gregory had made him laugh. An honest laugh, not the droll sounds of false merriment he emitted should the situation call for such. Gregory had made him laugh - out loud. Mycroft could not remember the last time he had done so. All he knew was that he wanted to be able to so again. Gregory had stared at him understandably surprised and yet so pleased to have given him this gift and smiled. There was something in the smile that did it. Mycroft found himself staring at the pleased curve of Gregory’s lips and his felt an odd fluttering in his stomach. He ignored it then. He had chalked it up to the effects of not having had a belly laughed as such in years that the unused muscles reacted, but even then a part that did not want to admit it knew he was in trouble.

Mycroft had been in love once before. It was a disaster and a harsh lesson learned. He vowed that would never happen again. That there was no one worth his time had made it an easy vow to uphold. Yes, he had occasional sex just to get a release, but because of his security issues it was always such an orchestrated affair. In his position he could never really trust anyone, thus he could never really let himself go. And what tensions he could release were hardly ever worth it in the end.

Sex was one thing, but sleeping, to actually _sleep_ with someone after the orgasm was another. It involved a level of intimacy that Mycroft had felt would not happen for someone like him again. He was fully prepared to live the rest of his life this way.

Then Sherlock brought this man into his life. Twice in fact.

The first time that began with the professional arrangement that segued in a friendship.

The second time was after Sherrinford. Mycroft was overwrought under the tortured hours with Eurus. He had not been prepared for Gregory’s care, his patience and his kindness. He had been less prepared to fall in love again, and not only again, but this time he fell harder. He fell in a way he knew he would never recover from. And he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade must never know how he felt.

Mycroft knew it was based selfishness and fear, but under no circumstance would he risk losing such a precious friendship when Gregory rejected his offer of love. In his mind it was a blessing such a down to earth man could as Lestrade could like such a man as Mycroft, could be good friends with such a man as Mycroft, but Gregory could never love such a man as Mycroft. Even though recently it seemed Gregory was a little more open, with just a hint of flirting that he had never done before with him, Mycroft chalked it up to their increased familiarity with each other. Mycroft was afraid to hope, in fact he was terrified that the universe could bless him with something more. Yet did he not want to go through the painful dance he had watched his brother and John had gone through before the two idiots finally got together.

And then last night happened… he had dreamed that Greg had come to Blaine’s. That he sang for the man and it all came out. When he awakened alone yet again it was even more saddening, but it inspired a musical piece that he had yet to play. He had vowed to himself that if Gregory ever showed up at Blaine’s he would play for it for the man. It was now the fourth time he had the dream in the past month, but this last one felt so vivid and so real. _So perfect._ It impacted him so deeply that Mycroft was at work before he realized he had subconsciously selected the same suit he had worn in the dream. He had a busy and frustrating few weeks which were exacerbated with not being able to meet with Gregory for the DI was amid several murder investigations and busy himself. It further inspired Mycroft to come to Blaine’s.

Mycroft came to Blaine’s Juke Joint a few times a year when the intrigues of the world and his longing for Gregory became too much and he needed a release. Playing piano at any of his homes was its own release, but as Sherlock once said _genius needs an audience_. On a rare whim Mycroft used proxies and purchased a fledgling bar and the restaurant next door and turned it into Blaine’s Juke Joint. The best was hired for every aspect of the atmosphere he wanted. In theme with the club’s nod to the movie Casablanca, Mycroft took on the stage name Wilson Dooley in a tongue and cheek nod to the movie’s piano player. That Blaine’s became an instant hit was a given. Its staying power four years later surprised even him. Blaine’s had closed only once: to be retrofitted for work use. Several targets were taken down by the recording devices there and the information gathered used against them all while keeping Mycroft, the political player, above it all while Wilson Dooley played. Once she learned of the place, Anthea was amused that he had gone through all of this for no other reason than to be able to play piano in a public forum when he wanted. 

Ichor, the house band for Blaine’s were all professional musicians who were making names for themselves locally. That they were all former MI5 or MI6 agents who owed an allegiance to Mycroft in some way notwithstanding. As a band they had put out a CD of cover songs and had gained something of a following. Guests were always interested in the enigmatic, but talented pianist in the over-sized fedora who showed up periodically, never spoke, played with the band and then disappeared for weeks. It added to their cachet.

They were always happy when he appeared at Blaine’s unannounced which was most of the time. Granted they were also more on guard when he was there for Mycroft’s safety was always paramount in their minds, but his playing more than made up for it. Only once did he come there and not play: Anthea warned him Elizabeth Smallwood had brought a date to the jazz club and naturally sat in the front tables right by the piano. They have worked closely together. He could not risk that she would recognize him. Mycroft knew once she was aware he not just owned, but sometimes played at Blaine’s he would never know peace again there, which would ruin the point of the club. He had not told Sherlock for the same reason. Only Anthea knew and not because he told her. She was there on a date with an MI6 agent and recognized him. She said nothing that night. She waited until the next day at work to blast him for the potential security breach for his safety. Though he rarely told when he was coming, for most of the time he did not know himself, she was somehow always there. Mycroft had to admit having her there watching his back along with the band was a comfort that he and the band grew used to. Mycroft may be a serious, cold man, all buttoned up in his armor of bespoke three-piece suits, but in here as Wilson Dooley he was a little more relaxed. Wilson Dooley performed jacketless in open collar shirts, loose ties and rolled up sleeves under his, all bespoke of course. There was a limit to the madness. Other than his, never as often as he liked, dinners and lunches with Gregory, Blaine’s was his haven from it all.

The band was onstage doing a quick warm up before they began the first set of the evening. Too late Mycroft remembered, because the band leader Royce had recently returned from his honeymoon, that the first set for the night was all romance. No one could have known it was the last thing Mycroft needed as every song seemed to remind him of Gregory, but he could not besmirch the man’s infectious happiness.

Then he saw as Gregory and his work partner, Sally Donovan, enter.

He had not laid eyes on Gregory in nearly three weeks. His eyes drank in the sight of the man. His solid body, the silver hair standing on end from the thick strong fingers that forever ran through it. The crinkles around his eyes the way he smiles at Donovan while being the perfect gentleman as he held the chair for her to sit. Mycroft forced his head to turn away as they sat in the front row not far from the piano. Mycroft had never been more grateful for the over-sized fedora he wore all his life. Everything seemed surreal as the personal, professional parts of his world collided with his heart.

Mycroft did not want to admit to the intense streak of jealously that threatened to overtake him as he watched the two together. Nor did he want to admit to the relief in reading their body language and realizing it was not a date, but two overworked colleagues taking a needed break. Still, as he saw Donovan reach out and touch Gregory’s hand he wanted to viciously smack her fingers away wishing it was his fingers that touched Gregory.

He knew he needed to distract himself and quickly. Mycroft reached up, tilted the fedora to a steeper slant, and kept his head angled so that his face was more deeply in shadow and began to play. _Autumn Fields,_ the band’s upbeat jazzy interpretation of Pachelbel’s _Canon in D,_ fell from his fingers was not on the set list for the night. In fact, the band was not yet prepared to play, but the players were professional musicians and quickly slipped into place to accompany him.

When the number was over he felt, if not better, more in control of himself again. Royce gave him a knowing look as he went to the microphone and began a proper intro for the night. By the time they reached the third number in the set, a cover of the Duke Ellington and John Coltrane classic _In a Sentimental Mood_, it had felt that the universe was out to torture him. If during _The Nearness of You _he peeked at Lestrade when he heard the man gently laugh at something Sally Donovan said and his heart lurched, it was on him.

It was a mixed blessing that the adage people see what they want to see had truth to it. Because Gregory would not expect to see Mycroft playing piano with a band at a jazz club, he did not see Mycroft on the stage even when he looked in Mycroft’s direction. Still, it was with a grateful but silent sigh from Mycroft when Royce spoke into the microphone to announce the last song of the set and he could get off the stage.

“We have come to our last number this session…” he clutched his trumpet over his heart in apology at the very disappointed sounds from the audience, “I know… I know… but to make it up to you we have something a little different to close out. Tonight, we present an original piece penned by our own Mr. Wilson Dooley who insists on singing it now. It’s called _In the Silver Night_.”

Mycroft’s heart literally stopped for a beat. When he finally found breath again it took all he had not to lift his head and glare at Royce. That song was not on the list for the night or any night for that matter. Mycroft had only given Royce the sheet music a month ago. The trumpeter had loved the piece and pointedly asked if it were about someone specific. Mycroft had not answered him, but clearly the treacherous bastard had sussed it out for himself. All of Mycroft’s hand-picked agents had exceptional observation skills. Royce was a former agent who knew him well enough and now used those skills to put him on the spot as he glanced from the table where Greg and Sally sat to him with him a sly knowing grin.

With sudden clarity Mycroft was reminded once again _the universe is rarely that lazy_.

He had made a vow. The universe has slowly been pushing him towards this moment and now it was here. It would have to be a solo – his solo to Gregory.

He was not ready, but he could not get away at the audience applauded. He had no choice.

Mycroft adjusted the fedora to a more rakish tilt; its wide brim shielding more of his face and began to play. He did not sing often, in fact it had been a nearly a year since he last did so. He felt it as the spot lights lowered and focused on him as the lyrics fell.

_“I hear the clock ticking in the dark  
It echoes my heart as I lay alone…”_

Little by little his heart quieted as he was drawn into emotions that penned the song.

_“…With you in my head  
Wanting you by my side…”_

_“In the silver night…”_

The rest of the band came in adlibbing with a soft accompaniment that suited the song well. Royce knew the piece. Mycroft had faith in the trumpeter as his body swayed with the music careful to keep his head down as he concentrated on the song.

_“…The moon holds all my secrets_   
_how I long to be in your heart_   
_With words of love I’ve only said_   
_within my dreams…”_

He let his fingers float over the softer parts of the song, only to only claw and slam out his emotions in as it reached its crescendo. Mycroft knew he did not have a great singing voice, but he knew how to use it. He poured his soul into it and directed the words to one person and one person only as he let the music talk for him.

_“…And I’ll convince myself that I can manage  
That caring is not an advantage…”_

_ “But now I know it’s a lie!”_

Mycroft thought about the blessing of the man so close to him, yet so far from him. Lost in the music he threw his head back and poured everything into one raw harrowing note of longing. The beat of silence that followed made the sound of a surprised gasp, followed by a shuddering breath noticeable. Mycroft has listened to Gregory’s words and all manner of utterances for years and knew it was him. More importantly he has told Gregory for years that caring was not an advantage before he learned the lie of it for himself.

Mycroft slowly lowered his head just as Gregory raised his head and Mycroft’s eyes locked on Gregory’s stunned brown eyes. In that moment, in that beat, Mycroft understood that he knows.

He started playing and the band came in again.

_“_ _It’s the eggshell syllables of your name  
I whisper to your specter in Luna’s light  
For once again I face the stars on my own  
All alone  
In the silver night…”_

He dropped his head fully hiding his face again as Gregory gave him a tremulous smile before he dropped his simultaneously in shock. Mycroft saw it, the shock, the disappointment as Gregory looked at Sally, as he looked away from Mycroft.

He knows some studies say otherwise, but Mycroft would swear he felt a physical pain as his heart heaved in reaction to Gregory’s expression. He hands shook and he forced himself to finish the song.

_“…In the silver…night.”_

The silence after that last note was as thunderous. Only the applause that immediately followed was louder. He vaguely noted when Royce took to the microphone again to close out the set with the usual introductions. Luckily Mycroft’s stoicism was already known, and he gave a simple wave when his name was called to more applause.

He sat in seat in his own stunned silence when Gregory suddenly rose and left a very satisfied looking Sally Donovan at the table.

He idly noted that Anthea may have spoken through the earpiece he wore, but he could not hear it over the sound of his heart crushing.

It was by rote he stood when Royce finished speaking and the band left the stage.

He walked from the stage straight to his dressing room. Royce and the rest of the band were talking. He thought they might have been complimenting him, but he could not really take it in. Royce saw Mycroft’s face and he quickly guided the band to their dressing room leaving him to his own misery in his private dressing room.

All he could see on repeat in his mind was the shock on Gregory’s face and his all but running out of the club to get away.

Gregory ran, of course, he ran. Mycroft knew deep down it was a pipe dream to have hoped what he felt was returned. He should have known better.

Love does not happen for a man like him. He knows this!

He was Mycroft Holmes dammit!

Wilson Dooley rolled down his sleeves, buttoned his shirt collar, replaced his tie and jacket, and he left the dressing in full Mycroft Holmes, Iceman regalia, but it also gave him time to think.

Yes, Gregory’s face was stunned. It had to have been as much a surprise to him to realize he had Mycroft’s love as it had been to Mycroft himself to discover. That was not necessarily a bad thing.

Gregory had smiled. It was small and showed his anxiety in its trembling, but it was not unease. He was not upset about it.

As he replayed what he could read of the conversation between Gregory and Sally Donovan immediately after the song ended. Mycroft was too in his self-misery at the time. As he replayed the memory he read Sally’s lips and knew she had urged Gregory to go and why. She knew! She had looked satisfied, cat that ate the canary satisfied because she was happy for her boss.

His logical mind was one thing, still, his heart could not believe the evidence in front of him. He couldn’t deal with it anymore. He needed to talk to Gregory and desperately needed a cigarette. He grabbed his coat and silver cigarette case and left. Mycroft did not speak to Royce, the only one in Ichor who would dare face him when he was in perceived foul mood. Royce did not say a word. There was none to be said when Mycroft Holmes openly had his cigarette case in his hands. Mycroft angled his head and raised a brow when Royce blocked his path for a moment. Royce looked him over quickly then gave a slight nod and stepped back letting Mycroft pass.

Only when his hand pushed touched the handle to the exit did he recall Anthea’s word in his ear as Royce closed out the set.

_“You do know he’s going to wait for you, Mr. Holmes?” _

_“Are you going to talk to him?”_

_“He just accidentally admitted to Sally Donovan that he loves you. If that helps.”_

At the time he had not responded to his personal assistant, who was so much more, but he had heard her.

He paused at the door. In another flash of blinding clarity, Mycroft understands that the universe is indeed imparting its blessings.

Mycroft knew beyond a doubt that Gregory Lestrade would be there waiting. 

Mycroft knew beyond a doubt that he would be talking with Gregory Lestrade. 

And even without Anthea’s confirmation Mycroft knew beyond a doubt that Gregory Lestrade loves him.

Mycroft David Alexander Holmes would quickly tell you he placed no faith in any deity. However, he does faith that the universe gives its wrath and its blessings in its own time. While the last thing he expected to happen in his life was to fall in love with the blessing that is Detective Inspector Gregory Michael Lestrade, the very last thing he expected was to be given the blessing that Detective Inspector Gregory Michael Lestrade returns that love.

Mycroft pushes open the door to the exit. A shaft of light pierces the steps to the dark car park illuminating the nervous figure waiting at the base of the steps.

Mycroft’s voice is soft as he greets his blessing.

“Hello Gregory.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The full _lyrics_ can be found here ["In The Siver Night](https://raivenne.com/2020/03/06/in-the-silver-night/)
> 
> [_Pachelbel’s Canon in D jazz piano _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EpxZT-EBOn4)
> 
> [ _In a Sentimental Mood _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sCQfTNOC5aE)
> 
> [_The Nearness of You _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ALk8rDOHZpo)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gregory Lestrade has kept his love for Mycroft in a very closed box and then one night there's an opening...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Mystrade is our Division FB Fic Prompts | Box

Greg Lestrade found himself pacing in a small box pattern as he thought and mentally laughed at himself.

Some people knew what they were good at and stayed in that box. That was Ian Mackenzie. Mack was a beat cop when Lestrade graduated academy. As Greg rose through the ranks, Mack remained a beat cop. Taking a cushy security job at a place such as Blaine’s to supplement his income now that he was retired was easy money.

Though Greg knew either one of the Holmes brothers would state otherwise, he considered it sheer luck that the security guard for the employees’ only access to parking lot was Mack. Lestrade’s reputation as a one of the MET’s best had in him good standing. When Mack saw him approach he did not question why the DI wanted entry, they chatted easily for a few minutes and Mack simply let him into the private parking.

Greg stopped his pacing and leaned against the fence as his mind went over how he came to be pacing there.

After their initial meeting – “You kidnapped an officer of the Metropolitan Police force!" “Absolutely no one forced you to get into the sedan Sgt. Lestrade…”– they began to see one another regularly. At first, it was a monthly meeting over drinks either in one of Mycroft’s offices or at a restaurant of Mycroft’s choosing. Greg never drove there himself, and he never dictated the time or location. A black car always pulled up on the side of the road and took him to wherever they were meeting. If the man were feeling generous, Greg would get a very brief text letting him know when to expect the car. It was all part of Mycroft’s power play, of course. Always the one calling the shots, always the one in control, it was the posh man’s decision. He understood Mycroft mentally had him a certain box, the Iceman was used to dealing with most things like this and Greg allowed himself to be compartmentalized into whatever spot in the man’s life, it was easier. 

It took a few months to realize how the timing of these meetings always coincided with when Greg was not excruciatingly busy. He did not discount the creep factor in how the enigmatic man always knew such, but it was an unspoken respect of Greg’s time and he appreciated it. It took a while to see past the ice and into the man, and walls of the box widened. Thus, Greg humored Mycroft’s high-handed ways because it meant that he got a free meal, some good scotch out of it and surprisingly good company out of it, but Greg did not kid himself, it was still a box.

One evening an officer who knew he worked sometimes with Sherlock Holmes had called him. Sherlock had overdosed, he was in St. Bart’s emergency, - it was bad. He had just arrived at the room when Sherlock started to code. Greg had seen true emotion from the Iceman for the first time ever as sheer dread and panic crossed Mycroft’s face as the medical team stormed the room. Greg had never seen the man look so vulnerable, before. Greg silently pulled Mycroft from the room and they watched helplessly as Sherlock was brought from the brink od death. Lestrade said nothing just kept a light touch on Mycroft’s sleeve in reminder to the elder Holmes brother that he was not alone in this. When Sherlock was stable, and they could enter the room again, Greg went to get them coffee.

A disheveled Mycroft Holmes had fallen asleep by his brother’s bedside by the time Greg returned. Mycroft’s head rested next to his sleep slackened hand the held Sherlock’s. He knew Mycroft must have been at the end of his reserves to fall asleep and then some to not hear his entrance into the room. Asleep, Mycroft’s face relaxed. Nothing of the regimented man existed in the calm of Morpheus’ charge. Greg did not have the heart to wake him as he resisted the urge that wanted to sweep back the cowlick that had the nerve to stray from its place and lay on Mycroft’s forehead. He put the cup down on the table next to Mycroft and forced himself to walk to the other side of Sherlock and take a seat. He held the genius’ other hand and waited. He woke up sometime later when Mycroft nudged his shoulder gently, a large cup of much better coffee than hospital provided in hand.

Mycroft’s jacket was off, his tie was loose, the top button on his shirt open. Lestrade looked up into the elder Holmes brother’s red rimmed eyes and gave a nod of thanks, but was otherwise silent. Their fingers touched briefly as he accepted the caffeinated ambrosia that most definitely not hospital coffee. He outwardly thanked Mycroft for the coffee and inwardly silently acknowledged the gift of being allowed to see the ever-impeccable Mycroft in what was for him an unkempt state.

As Sherlock recovered and neither he nor Mycroft ever spoke of that long night, the night he witnesses the depth of Mycroft Holmes’ heart for his baby brother. The amount of pain in those awful moments when it Sherlock went into cardiac arrest and he almost lost his baby brother could only come from an equal depth of caring. He knew Mycroft would not mention it for to do so would be to acknowledge that had been terrified of losing his baby brother. Greg could not mention it because to do so would be to acknowledge that was the night he realized he had begun to fall in love with the Mycroft Holmes.

Their meetings slowly became more frequent and eventually lost the pretense of only being about Sherlock. It was good news in that it meant he got to see Mycroft more, but mostly it made things that much worse as he kept his feelings for Mycroft buried deep inside a box of his own making. Greg feared if Mycroft ever knew, he would stop their dinners. They would only see each other professionally and Greg could not risk it. For the past four years, Lestrade had convinced himself that such an elegant posh man would never want a rough around the edges old cop like himself.

And then tonight happened…

Though he had never heard the man play, Greg knew Mycroft could play piano. He had seen the gleaming white grand piano in Mycroft’s townhouse. He knew it was not there for show; Mycroft was not the type to waste the space on something he did not use. Anthea had once admitted that Mycroft played the piano just as well as, if not better than, Sherlock played the violin.

No one had mentioned the man could also compose and sing a tune that simultaneously broke his heart and caused it to soar.

_“In the Silver Night”_

Greg thought of the song as he ran a hand through his own silver hair and sighed.

He remembered thinking for a moment how Mycroft might have liked the pinstripe trousers and vest Wilson Dooley wore, now he knew why. The oversized fedora had shielded his face well, yet it fit the mood of the place. In retrospect it was as plain as day to him, but he was just as guilty of using mental boxes for Greg had not thought to even try to look beyond it.

With his own head down, he had simply enjoyed the music. He heard the lyrics that held such longing, a deep sense of Fernweh for something thought he could never have. Greg had felt the words to his core for they could easily have been words from his own heart in what he felt for Mycroft.

_…And I’ll convince myself that I can manage _

_That caring is not an advantage…_

_But now I know it’s a lie!_

In that moment Gregory Michael Lestrade knew without a single doubt that the song was about him. He had gasped in surprise and raised his head to really look at the singer. Mycroft caught up in the throes of his own musical passion. Mycroft had thrown his head back slightly and a part of the spot light caught his chin, his bared teeth; and Greg saw how his throat seized in the pain of the acapella note held.

For a moment their eyes met, and Greg knew. Moreover, he knew that Mycroft knew.

In that crystalline moment where neither man had a chance to guard the emotions from showing in their faces, they both knew the truth about each other finally. Greg shuddered in the enormity of the revelation.

_He’s in love with me! And he knows I am in love with him. _

Stunned by the knowledge his face was open with his emotions as the song ended and the club burst into applause. His partner Sally knew him well. She had seen the moment flare between them and figured it all out. She would not let him ignore his heart and urged him to follow it.

_Sally is right; I must talk to him._

He trusted her to keep his secret as he fled the restaurant to wait for him.

Greg saw that Mycroft’s sedan still in the lot. He knew Mycroft had not left yet. Still, as the exit door on landing above him did not open, and the minutes dragged on, he began to wonder.

_Did I read this wrong? Would he try to avoid me? What if he had a different car pick him up and left from a different exit? What if he does not want to see me anym…_

He heard the push of the emergency exit handle engage just before the door opened and a tall fedoraed figure filled its frame. The light from behind him placed him in complete shadow, but even with his coat on Gregory Lestrade would know this man’s shape anywhere.

_Mycroft!_

“Hello Gregory.” Mycroft greeted with a soft voice. It made Greg’s heart stutter.

“Mycroft,” he responded just as softly as he stood in the man’s shadow.

“I’m afraid I find myself at once in the singular position of being so elated yet so terrified, Lestrade.”

“I wholly reciprocate. Yet I must say if there was ever a time there should not be the formality of surnames it is now. Do you not agree…” Greg slowly climbed the stairs until he stood in front of the man, “Mycroft?”

He has stood this close to Mycroft at Baker Street, at the hospital when Sherlock was hurt, two or three times at NSY when their respective jobs crossed jurisdictions. None of them were as close or as emotionally charged than this moment. Mycroft was in shadow, but Greg could see enough to know it was not just his own breath that stuttered nervously in the long silence as neither spoke.

He was not surprised when Mycroft brought out a pack of cigarettes and shook one loose.

“I thought you quit.” Greg tilted his head slightly in surprise.

“Yes, well…some situations call for it…” Mycroft gave the tiniest shrug as he placed it between his lips and put the pack away. He then did the classic pat down moves of someone searching for their lighter. Greg reached in a pocket and brought out his own cigarette and lighter.

“I thought you quit.” Mycroft parroted. Greg could just make out the raised brow.

“Yes, well…” Greg sheepishly repeated as he stepped closer and flicked the lighter on.

His words cut off as Mycroft’s hands cupped his to protect the flame as he took a deep drag. He in turn lit his own cigarette. Though the lighter flame was extinguished, Mycroft was slow in moving his hands as he stepped forward and the door closed behind him, casting them both into shadows. The dim light above the door fizzed out. The glow of their respective cigarettes punctuated the darkness. The ambient light from parking lot reached them just enough to illuminate the wisps of smoke around them.

Mycroft leaned against the rail and Greg joined him. They had never stood quite this close before as their shoulders touched while they smoked in a compatible, if slightly nervous, silence.

“So, did you come out just for a drag?” Greg asked after a while.

“Did you have Mackenzie let you break into the employees’ only parking lot for one?” Mycroft countered.

Greg started to speak but Mycroft spoke first. “Four years, three months and two days…”

Greg frowned when Mycroft said nothing else. He realized Mycroft wanted him to figure it out. With a shock he realized he really did not need to think about it at all.

“3:27am St. Bart’s Hospital.”

_That is how long he has known he loved me. _

“The time is wrong, but the location is correct. How…?” Mycroft’s sudden intake of air gave away his surprise.

“That was the time when I knew for myself, Mycroft.”

Greg smiled at the sound of Mycroft’s gasp. “I had looked at my watch once I sat down after I had gone to get coffee from the vending machine. You had fallen asleep by the time I returned. Your hair had fallen into your face and I wanted to push it back into place…I wanted to touch _you, _Mycroft. I wanted it …so _badly_. But I couldn't. Then later you woke me with the good coffee when I had fallen asleep.” Greg dropped his unfinished cigarette and crushed it out under his heel. He turned to face Mycroft, “I remember thinking what a gift it was that you had allowed me to see you vulnerable. And how I wished so badly that you trusted me enough to let me be that person for you whenever you needed it. Not just an extreme circumstance like that night.”

“It was 5:08am for me. Anthea’s morning call woke me. I looked up and there you were asleep holding my brother’s hand. You had silently, gently, taken me in hand as I was about to fall apart when Sherlock coded. You had never stayed all night before when he was hurt. Once I showed up you always left him in my hands. This time you stayed even after he was stabilized.” Mycroft turned to face him. “In my heart I realized you were there not just for Sherlock, but also for me, but my head said it was just courtesy. In my position, people want something from me all the time. But you were never one of them, Gregory. You never asked a thing of me other than to treat you like a human being and not like one of my many minions. You respect my position, but never at the degradation of your own. I realized then I wanted you to want _me_, yet at the same time, I convinced myself an open man like you would never want someone like me.”

“And I convinced myself a posh man like you would never want a rough and tumble man like me. The universe has a wicked sense of humor to have us pine for so long when we’re in each other’s face so much.” Greg shook his head at the absurdity of it all.

“Oh, the universe does indeed. Last night I dreamed you had come to Blaine’s and I sang for you.”

“Really?”

“I told myself this morning that if you had ever happened to come to Blaine’s and I was there, I would sing for you and tell you everything. I fully admit that I had said so facetiously, never expecting you would show. Your presence tonight surprised me greatly to say the least.” Mycroft admitted.

“Interesting. I had told myself this morning while I shaved, that I would be honest and tell you how I felt the very next time I saw you. We were scheduled to meet for dinner Friday and I was working myself up for that. Your presence tonight in this manner greatly stunned _me_.”

“You and I both made self-promises on the same day? I do believe that was a _Challenge Accepted_ answered by the universe with brutal efficacy.” Mycroft chuckled low.

“Thou shalt not taunt the universe? Duly noted.” Greg conceded. “I think we’re babbling…stalling, Holmes.”

“Babbling. Stalling. Yet I must say if there was ever a time there should not be the formality of surnames it is now. Do you not agr…?” Mycroft quoted Greg’s words back at him as he stubbed out his cigarette and flicked it away.

Mycroft never finished the question as Gregory could not wait a second more and kissed him.

And after for four years, three months and two days the walls of the box finally fell away.


End file.
